


Scarlet

by Joiedevivre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joiedevivre/pseuds/Joiedevivre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson never considered this possibility. </p><p>Written 12/30/11. It's shippy if you squint at it a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarlet

All the intellect in the world can't stop a gun, once fired. 

Intellect might tell you to shield yourself, that you can dodge it, you can leap out of way, you can duck, you can even try to run. But even an intellect such as his can't stop a gun once fired. He looks down at his hands and they're shaking, trembling uncontrollably. His chest throbs with a pain he can't identify. Not a gun. Not this. He thinks that his leg hurts and knows it's in his head. 

Breathing hurts. Every inhale, every exhale, every little twinge of muscle as he struggles to keep taking in air. 

This was not a scenario he could have imagined. If he'd ever imagined an end. And he has, he has. He's a veteran. He's been in combat. He's seen comrades die. Fellow soldiers. Not friends. 

A bullet. If he could even begin to process what was before him, he might laugh at the irony of this. To make it through a war emotionally unscathed (well perhaps not unscathed, but damn close, minimal therapy required), to survive watching tens, hundreds of men die, to return home to rebuild his life, only to watch it fall apart six months later, shattered in one unbelievable, agonizing moment. 

Breathing hurts, and his hands are covered in blood. Deep, deep, red, so rich and red and dead, and absolutely, irrevocably, finitely, irreversibly, dead, and this cannot be happening. 

He's seen men die.

But he's never seen Sherlock die. He's never seen Sherlock falter, fade, or shy away from anything. He's never imagined that anything on this mortal plane could stop a mind such as his.

"Sherlock," he whispers, and it's a plea. "Sherlock. You - you have to wake up. You have to tell me - I need to know. What happened, Sherlock? Please." 

There's blood on his hands, and it is so, so, red. "Sherlock," he whispers again. "You have to get up. I don't know what to do." 

The silence that falls when he stops speaking is smothering, and the ringing cellular phone that breaks it is like shattering glass. He automatically reaches for his pocket, stops when he looks down and sees his hand (red, red, red and dead), then double takes again when he realizes the ringing isn't coming from him. 

It's coming from Sherlock. 

"Ph-phone," his voice doesn't sound his own, weak and broken, almost a whimper. He leans forward, reaching outward, one russet-stained hand now darkening with dried blood, to Sherlock's pocket. He stops just before his hand touches fabric. He hasn't touched him since - since he- well his hands are covered in blood, and he can't process how or why and the phone is still ringing. He steels himself, pressing his lips together, and he tastes blood. Not his. He remembers, in a flash. Sherlock's lips under his, warm, but impossibly still, unbelievably unmoving. 

He forces himself to turn back the lapel of Sherlock's jacket, which stiffening with dried blood - and God there is so much blood - fumbles for a moment, pulls out the phone. Ringing. He blinks several times, his vision obscured by something, something, can't be tears, because he's not crying, is he, and he looks down at the phone, recognizes the name on the caller ID. He presses the button to answer. Clears his throat. 

"Lestrade," he says roughly, voice low and choking on an emotion he still can't process. "It's Watson. I think you'd better come."


End file.
